Batgirl: The Birds and the Bats
by Hawki
Summary: DCEU Oneshot: Once, she was considered a bird. Now, she was considered a bat. In a sense, it didn't matter. She was insane either way.


**The Birds and the Bats**

Proving that crime was alive and originality was dead in Gotham, the group was called the Harlequins.

They were also based at a warehouse in the docks, because of course they were. Criminals operated in the docks, either by paying bribes to the port authority, making threats to the port authority, or if push came to shove, leaving a body in the water for the port authority to find. That might have been surmountable if the GCPD wasn't hampered by budget cuts, incompetence, and outsourcing to Crows Security, which spent most of its time protecting those who could afford it. As much of a tautology was it was, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. In this world, people looked to the sky, in fear and hope, and to the oceans in equal fear and dread. Yet Gotham's eyes were forever downward. Inward-focused, unable to bear the decay that had gripped the city for generations, yet unable to look away either.

If people _had _been looking up tonight, they might have seen a figure glide across the night sky. Not a bird, not a plane, and whose cape was black instead of red, stretched out to catch the wind. They might have seen the Winged Avenger head towards one unfortunate yuppy on the rooftop, smoking a joint that was about as healthy as it was legal. And they might, just _might_, have seen the poor sod turn and open his mouth to scream before suffering a concussion.

They might have seen any of this. They wouldn't see the vigilante extinguish the joint with her boot before kneeling on the roof to survey the docks. They wouldn't see her bring the night-vision goggles down over her mask, and nor would they hear her activate her earpiece and whisper "I'm in."

"Actually, by my reading, you're on a rooftop."

And they wouldn't see her scowl either. "Snark doesn't become you Bruce."

"Then you don't know me. And no names over the channel."

She didn't retort to that. Fun as it was to rib Bruce Wayne every now and then, this wasn't one of those times. Years ago, he'd pushed her to the limits. And over that time and since, she'd come to realize that he had limits as well. Limits of the mind and soul, as much as the limits that had forced him to put aside the cape.

"Anyway, what's the situation?"

She adjusted the goggles' zoom function, going in and out of resolution. "Grunts, guards, guns. About twenty of them...and those are just the ones I can see."

"And the ones you can't?"

"Well, either they'll see me before I knock them out, or they won't."

Was Bruce smiling? She could imagine him smiling. Or maybe she was just hoping he was smiling. He didn't smile much, and when he did, it was usually when he was displaying his mask to the world - Gotham's playboy who could spend billions on the city and have the privilege of being drunk while doing so. On the rare occasions that he smiled, it made the aching body and broken bones thing worth it.

"Just be careful. And call in when you're done."

"Still got friends in high places?"

"I've got friends in the GCPD. They turn up and see unconscious bodies, they get to arrest them without fearing for their lives."

When she'd mentioned 'high places,' she knew that he hadn't been referring to the police. But putting that aside, she whispered, "out," and terminated the feed.

She got to her feet, twisting her neck. It was hard to imagine that when Bruce Wayne had first taken up the cowl, he hadn't been able to move his neck at all. Still, times changed. Gods fell from the sky, mermen rose from the sea, politicians grew fat and…alright, maybe that wasn't times changing. Maybe that was the world. And maybe it was time to get to work.

She glided down to the first patsy, ending the conscious part of her evening without much trouble. _No maybe about it._

The Harlequins had more of the fairer sex in their ranks than the other, but it didn't make any difference. They still bled, and they still hit the ground all the same. Some of them saw her before her fists reached their faces. Some of them cried out "Batgirl!" before her feet wrapped their way around their necks, and brought their heads down onto the cold, hard ground. Some of them even managed to point a gun at her before she disarmed them and repeated the process. Within ten minutes, twenty Harlequins were lying on the ground, unconscious. And none was the wiser as to the presence of the Winged Avenger.

"Perimeter neutralized," she said.

There was a pause, before Bruce responded. "You're still taking too long."

"Didn't know we were on a timer." She knew she was pushing her luck, but frowning, she couldn't help but add, "and if we are, why can't your friends turn up?"

"Different threats, different priorities."

"Yeah. Sure." She looked up at the warehouse she was outside. The one where the last of the Harlequins were holed up in, their leader included. "Going in, just so you know."

"Worried I might say no?"

"I'm worried that you're worried that I'm worried about doing what has to be done."

"I'm not worried. But..." There was a pause, and she could tell it wasn't just for effect. "Just be careful."

A pause of her own followed, before she whispered, "sure." And another, before using her grappling hook to get up to one of the warehouse windows and peaking in.

Bruce sounding like he did bothered her more than anything, and this was a man whose idea of processing trauma was dressing up as a flying rodent and fighting crime for twenty-plus years. But that had been then. That had been while he could wear the cowl and do so at peak efficiency. That was a time when his membership in the Justice League wasn't confined to doing their payroll. That was a time when he only had two graves to visit on the grounds of Wayne Manor rather than three, and times where a certain suit on display in the Batcave had prevented him from ever taking another protégé. One who didn't call herself after a bird, but one who'd been called "Batgirl." Because that was what the _Gotham Times _had dubbed her as, proving the patriarchy was alive and well or something.

In truth, that she was a "girl" rather than a "woman" did irritate her. But names could only hurt feelings, and she'd experienced stones and broken bones long before Bruce had taken her under his very black, very tarnished wing. Beholding the sight in the warehouse, she was reminded that if this wasn't nipped in the bud, a lot of people would be hurt. Question was, could she hurt the Harlequin elite enough to stop that from happening? And could she bring herself to do that to her old friend?

"That ship here yet? I'm bored."

"Ship isn't due until two, ma'am."

"Shut up Charlene, I didn't ask you."

"But you just-"

Harley Quinn, leader of the Harlequins, and the Clown Princess of Crime, pulled a gold-plated pistol from her belt and put a gold-plated bullet through Charlene's eyes. And the one called Batgirl winced.

"Heartrate's spiking," came Bruce's voice.

_Seriously?! _Biting back a retort, she shifted her eyes from the Harley to the white packages that were stacked in the warehouse. The uninformed observer might have guessed that they were drugs or semtex. Being an informed observer, she knew they were both. Drugs would be sold onto a ship that would dock in one hour's time, cash would be exchanged, and then the ship would be blown to kingdom come. The uninformed observer at this point might ask "why?" Being informed, she'd have simply said "it's Harley."

"Watch it Denise, you're spilling blood over the floor."

"Sorry ma'am."

"Yeah, whatever. Just make sure the babies are fed."

In spite of everything, she felt ill. She had little love for drug dealers, or crime gangs, or heck, anything right now. But she had to act. She had to get this over with, because while this would hurt Harley more than it hurt her, this was still going to hurt. So she got to her feet, waiting for Bruce to say something. Anything. For good or ill.

No words came. And taking a breath, the Winged Avenger dropped down into the fray.

No words came from the Harlequins apart from "Batgirl," "fuck," and "shit!" Certainly a lot of shouts though. And baseball bats. And knives. And guns. And the barking of two hyenas in a cage nearby as the Harlequin elite was incapacitated one by one. So that within the minute, nine thugs were lying unconscious, next to a tenth who was still bleeding out of her forehead. Breathing heavily, and not just from exertion, the vigilante turned and faced the Clown Queen of Crime.

"Harley Quinn."

She was clapping like a maniac. "Nice," the crime lady said. "That happened to my boys and girls outside, right?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she just stared at the woman sitting on a sofa covered in plastic, beholding her with a mix of revulsion and pity.

"Can I offer you something?" Harley asked. "I..." She looked to the sound of barking hyenas. "Shut up! Mama's coming!"

"You're not coming anywhere Harley. Except jail."

The woman stared at her, eyes as wide as a drowning fish, before giggling. "Seriously? Nowhere but jail? Do you have any idea how lame that sounded?"

It was, she reflected. But watching Harley laugh, twisting and convulsing on her throne, the pity and revulsion remained in her mind. Pity, because for all her talk of being emancipated from Mister J, Harleen Frances Quinzel had gone down the same route the Joker had, and not particularly well at that. Blood red lips, a white powdered face, rings, earrings, body piercings...Harley might have outlived her mentor, but in a sense, the Joker was as alive as ever. If there was a Hell, and it offered a window to the mortal world, she had no doubt that the Joker was laughing.

But for all her pity, there was still revulsion. Revulsion for what this woman had done. For all her claims of turning over a new leaf, of being one who used her mallet against the right people, she hadn't done any of that. For what Harley had done to her, intentional or otherwise. And the knowledge that if Bruce hadn't found her when he did, and filled her with his own form of insanity, she might be one of the Clown Princess's thugs. Heck, she might even be the one lying on the ground with a bullet between her eyes.

"Y'know, I never got the whole Batgirl thing," Harley said. She leant back on her chair, lighting up a cigarette. "I mean, Batsy always had a thing for birds and cats, which is really odd when you think about it, but here you are - some modern woman imitating da man because he's too old to put his own big boy trunks on." She blew the smoke out at the vigilante. "Not exactly your own girl, are ya?"

Trying not to cough, she murmured, "you're not either."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you're just like the Joker, so-"

Harley let out a shriek that didn't even sound human. A shriek that would have given Dana Lance a run for her money. A shriek that caught the Winged Avenger off guard for a second, long enough for Harley to draw out a pair of gold-plated pistols.

_Oh shit._

One of them have LOVE carved into its side. Into the other was HATE. Both opened fire.

_Shit!_

She was actually able to deflect two of the rounds, thanks to her speed, and the batsuit's gauntlets. But the third hit her. The fourth breached her armour. No fifth came however - as she fell to the ground, cursing, something else hit her. A boot. A bat. And not the type that flew through the air, the type that was made of wood and hurt like hell.

"I am not the Joker! I ain't no Mister J! I ain't his puddin!"

She might have been able to sympathize with Harley if the booting and the batting wasn't making her bruised. But any sympathy went out the window when with one hand, Harley grabbed her neck, and with the other, pointed the gun at her forehead. The one marked HATE.

"So then, Batsy," the Clown Princess whispered. "Let's see what's under the mask."

"Don't..." she moaned. "Please."

"Please?" Harley whispered. "Don'tcha mean pretty please? Sugar on top? Strawberry?" She traced a finger over her lipstick, before dragging it down over the vigilante's mask. It smelt of blood.

"Sorry dollface. No pleases without queues." Still pointing the gun at her foe, Harley grabbed the bat mask and pulled. "Now then, let's see what's under the...under the...the..."

The mask fell on the ground. So did the pistol. Hate fell, but no love rose to meet it. And the vigilante, unmasked, didn't rise at all. She just met her foe's gaze. The foe who had once been her friend. The foe who was looking down at her in shock and horror.

"Cass?" Harley whispered.

Cassandra Cain didn't say anything. She just lay there. Looking up at her foe. Frozen, in a moment she knew would be her last chance. Frozen, before kneeing Harley in the gut, before kicking her off, and flipping up to her feet. Her bullet wound was yelling at her to take it easy. Her killer instinct was reminding her to not let her guard down. And her heart?

"You," Harley hissed, getting to her feet as well. She didn't have her guns, but she did have her bat. "Knew you wouldn't stay a bird, but a _bat_?"

Cassandra remained silent. The girl that she'd once been had so much to say. The woman she was now kept her tongue at bay.

She could see in Harley's eyes what she saw in herself every time she looked in the mirror. Gone was the street urchin who'd loved chocolate and hadn't been able to protect herself. In place was a woman - one with thinner face, narrower eyes, shorter hair, and layers of muscle beneath the black armour which she wore. Cassandra Cain had grown up. Cassandra Cain was no longer among the Birds of Prey.

"Always knew you were a floozy," Harley hissed.

Cassandra Cain was now Batgirl. And Cassandra Cain defended herself when Harley swung her bat at her.

It was easy to avoid the woman's swings. She'd been her little bird for years, and she'd picked up a thing or two. She could see that Harley had lost it, of what little of "it" she'd retained since the Joker had strapped two electrodes to her head. But it made all the difference. The difference between swinging the bat like a crazy woman, and swinging the bat like a crazy woman who didn't know how to swing a bat. It was the difference between Harley Quinn acting like she was over Mister J, and actually being over him. Of being angry about how her little bird had become a bat, and being hurt. So while one bat swung, and one bat dodged, it didn't take long for the former to place the former between her gauntlets, and cleave it in two.

Harley didn't take it well. The bat had broken her bat, and her bird had broken her heart. Cassandra, gritting her teeth, kicked her to the ground before she could do anything else. "Enough," she said. "It's over."

"Tart! Bitch! Traitor!"

Cassandra just stood there, saying, "cops are coming. Drugs are going to be disposed of. No-one's being blown up tonight." She looked around the room - at the drugs/explosives, at the bodies, at the blood. The hyenas were still barking. It took but a moment...but it was all the time for Harley to pull something out of her pocket. Something small, something rectangular, and something with a red switch with BOOM written in yellow writing.

"Actually, Little Birdy," the Clown Princess whispered, "someone is being blown up tonight."

"Harley, don't!"

She pressed the button. And in that instant, Cassandra Cain knew she had two choices. Save herself. Or try and save both of them, and die trying. She knew, as their eyes met for the last time, as the bird beheld the bat, that there was only one choice to make.

Save herself. Use her grapple, outrun the explosion, and glide through the air, letting the force of the blast propel her across the docks. Yelling as the heat washed over her, and the bullet reminded her of its presence.

"Batgirl, what happened?!"

Bruce was still in her ear. Bruce, caring now, because of all the pretty pretty fireworks. Bruce, who'd never let his little bat fly away too far. Bruce Wayne, too old to wear the cape now, forced to rely on little women to take the names of girls and do his dirty work for him.

"Batgirl, report!"

She dropped down onto another building. She could hear and see the sirens. She could hear and see the fire that had taken the warehouse. Even here, in the early hours of the morning, she could feel its heat. Washing over her body, as if trying to cleanse her of her sins.

"Batgirl, what-"

"Harley's gone," Cassandra Cain whispered.

"Gone?"

"Blown up. Obliterated. Pressed a button, fire started, cue all the pretty lights."

There was a long pause, before Bruce murmured, "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Cass asked. "You spent over twenty years as Batman and managed to have most of your foes alive by the end of it. Why should you be sorry?"

"You know why."

Cassandra bit her lip. She wished he'd yell at her. That way, she could yell back. That she hated him. That she hated this life that he'd forced upon her. That she'd had a good time on the streets, and that it was her fault that her...friend, was dead. But he didn't yell. Bruce Wayne didn't yell. There was only one time in the history of the Batman when people had called him "angry," and bodies and brands had followed in his wake. Bruce Wayne had told her that he would never go back to that. And that she could never fall so low either. Not like he had. Not like Jason had.

"Batwing's en route," he said. "Stay high. Copters are going to have spotlights on the ground, but let's not give them an excuse to look up."

"Roger that. Out." She deactivated the radio. "Prick."

Harley had been angry at her, she reflected. Harley had given her the decency of real emotion. Harley Quinn had been insane, murderous, psychopathic, dangerous, and very, very rude...but she'd saved her life. Been the big sister she'd never had. Taken her under her wing as her little bird.

She couldn't forget that.

Nor shake the feeling that in her own way, she was just as insane.


End file.
